Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 112500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 563(@200wpm)___ 450(@250wpm)___ 375(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 563(@200wpm)___ 450(@250wpm)___ 375(@300wpm)
Eyrun rose, craning her head to meet his penetrating gaze. “So the spy spies on spies who are spying.”
He didn’t deny it. “Why does the Berserker queen want her most trusted shieldchief neutralized? A warrior who is also one of her gods-sons?”
Eyrun’s grin settled somewhere between flirt and scorn. “Maybe we should take a page out of your book and make you pay for information. For currency, we accept cock and cock. Off with your drawers, sir!”
He raised one brow.
Ven peered at her sister. “Is that not legal tender?”
“We’ve watched this one work. Tender is the last word I’d use.” They dissolved into laughter.
“Do you Valkyries take nothing seriously?”
“Yes.” Eyrun’s honey-brown eyes twinkled. “Nothing is a very serious subject.”
A crack appeared in Inkletter’s customary composure, and his notorious contempt for Valkyries shone through. “Foolish females. I’m old enough to remember when immortals thrived in plentiful Gaia, but you weren’t satisfied. The gods warned us not to interfere with humanity—such a simple dictate—but your kind toyed with their mortal favorites. As promised, they punished us. You were architects of the Exile.”
Ven was old enough to remember Gaia too. Unlike Eyrun, she was a first-generation Valkyrie, born of three parents. Eyrun was a second-gen, native to the Skein.
A memory of the Exile flashed like lightning—one heartbeat Ven and her sisters had been roaming all over Gaia, the next ripped into the Skein. This realm had become their cage, their home, their war front.
After the All-Battle, the Valkyries had claimed a misty territory of hills and fjords and called it Valhalland. They’d made the best of it, but they could never recreate what they’d had.
Humans in Gaia had created art for the Valkyries’ appreciation and built altars for them. They’d amused, helping to pass even an immortal’s endless time.
“We were the architects? What about the vampires who drained mortals?” Ven countered. “Or the incubi like you who long-dicked them into madness? Maybe deal some blame to the reptile shifters who ate them. The elders down in Umber still reminisce about sucking human marrow warm from the bone.”
“Undeniable hungers plague our species. But not yours. You suffer only vanity. Write eddas about us…pray to us…dream of our beauty.”
Ven grinned with sudden realization. “We always knew you hated us—just thought it was a typical demonic grudge—but we didn’t guess the feeling stemmed from jealousy.”
His eyes flashed. “Jealousy? One of your ilk—the most powerful soothsayer ever to live—foresaw the Exile and warned no one!”
Ven and Eyrun stilled. Because he was right. And now she lived eternally in a glass coffin.
Fangs grinding, he said, “Information about Arctos, lightning rider. What will it cost?”
Ven waved grandly. “Not for sale, incubus. Your quandary is too enjoyable. First a leech outwitted you, and now some Valkyries are denying your redemption arc.”
He tensed even more. “Your kind is a scourge on the Skein. A shimmering skin wrapped around chaos.”
Eyrun stamped her feet and groaned, “Enough with the seductive words, Inky! My gods, I’m yours!”
Ven guffawed as he disappeared with a killing look.
Eyrun pouted comically, then murmured, “He’ll be back, with that weighty club for a cock in hand. We might as well be fated.”
They laughed some more, lightning striking above from their emotions. “Come on, Eyesore. Let’s head back and bring word to Brigid.” The Valkyries’ unyielding leader.
From Ravinelun, the sisters ran at speeds that blurred the world until they’d crossed Craigdúr and then burst into the foggy Witchwood. With effortless agility, they wended around black oaks and dodged giant spiders, pausing only to make mustaches out of thick webs. Cat prides scattered, fur puffing into the air like thrown cotton. Yowl!
Laughing, Eyrun vaulted a boulder—
A mystical beam caught her square in the chest. The magic shot her body through the air, a comet that slammed her back-first into an ancient oak. The force split the trunk with a roar.
Half a dozen Red Riders on foot had struck.
To the pulses of lightning above, Ven freed her sword and helped her sister rise. Not that Eyrun needed help.
As she shoved ribs back inside her torso, she spat blood and a mouthful of acorns. “You’ve just fucked up, little witches. We love an excuse to fight.”
Sword twirling, Ven added, “You attack those who aren’t your enemies?”
Their formidable leader, Rosewyn the Banehand, held up glowing palms, threatening another helping of pain. “Not our allies either. You’re trespassing in the Witchwood. Our coven will accept it no longer.”
How had witches gotten the drop on them? Wiccan senses were some of the weakest among immortals.
Ven’s gaze flicked to the rear of the party, landing on a fox shifter. Ah. Chiyo the Vixen. She often functioned as a sensory guide for the witches.
With her lamellar armor and her fingers poised above the silk-wrapped grip of her sword, Chiyo exuded danger, yet she had incongruous freckles scattered over the bridge of her keen nose. Ven had never seen her in her kitsune—fox-human hybrid—form, but vulpine flashes shimmered just beneath the surface.